


White Knight

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don't copy to another site, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, POV Greg, Protective Mycroft, Tea, Tired Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-09 20:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20516201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: It's the kind of night which makes Greg just want to curl up with someone special. But it's just him and his cold flat. Or perhaps it's not...





	White Knight

Greg winced, sitting up. The man beside him was dead. His brain took a moment to process the fact – a bullet to the forehead was not an ambiguous thing and the finality of it was confronting, even with his experience. He had no idea where the shot had come from, but it certainly had not been him.

Slowly he brushed himself off, standing to look at the man who would have slit his throat, given another two seconds. He wasn’t familiar looking, and Greg wondered whether it was a personal vendetta against him or something more organised. Hopefully it was a one-off, or there might be others around.

Given the remote location, the man must have been waiting; connected to the tip off, then. Greg hoped Sally was okay. She’d gone left around the building while he’d gone right, hoping to cover more ground.

Greg had moved almost halfway around the building before a rush of air and years of instinct made him drop like a stone to avoid whatever malicious action was coming from behind him.

The gunshot had been inaudible, lost in the rhythmic sound of the freight train. Greg wondered if his would-be assassin had hoped the same sound would cover his assault. He’d never know now.

Looking around, Greg saw nobody. He was holding his gun now, wondering if it would be best to stay here and wait for Sally to make her way to him or to go and try and find her in case there was more than one assailant.

“Gregory,” came a voice from the deep shadows. _Same direction as the gunshot_, his professional mind supplied.

“Identify yourself,” Greg said tersely, swinging to face the blackness, his body alert, gun held more firmly as he waited for a response.

“Mycroft Holmes,” the voice came immediately. A couple of beats to allow the words to sink in before the man stepped out of the shadows, his dark pinstriped suit blending with the shadows, arms out to his side.

“Mycroft?” Greg whispered, his aim drooping a little.. “What are you doing here?”

Mycroft was still walking forwards, his face a poor disguise of distress. “I anticipated this assault,” he admitted. “I followed you here.” His hand twitched, and Greg saw the outline of a gun, pinched between thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

“You?” Greg asked. “Why?”

“I was concerned for your welfare,” Mycroft replied as though it was completely obvious.

“Right,” Greg said. It was too difficult to process the layers behind that statement. “I need to…” he waved at the body.

“Donovan’s around here somewhere too.”

“Not a problem,” Mycroft said, tucking his gun away and pulling his mobile from his pocket. He said only a few murmured words before replacing it. “A team will be here shortly. They will take a short statement but your involvement and responsibility will end there, Greg.”

Greg blinked at him. “What?” he said blankly. For some reason, he was mainly noticing Mycroft’s use of his first name.

Before Mycroft could reply, Donovan approached, frowning at Mycroft, one hand hovering near her hip. “Boss?” she asked warily.

“It’s fine,” Greg said. Tiredness lapped at his brain, the adrenalin waning and taking his energy with it. “This is Mycroft, he’s arranging all this.”

“Bloody hell,” Sally said, eyes settling on the body behind Greg.

“Set up,” he said. “Not an informant.”

“Okay,” she said cautiously. “Do you need…what should we do?”

Greg was grateful for her acceptance of the situation. “Go home,” he said. “I’ll write a report tomorrow.”

“You and Gregory found nothing here,” Mycroft replied evenly. “You came, you waited, you returned home at,” he looked at his watch, “9.17pm.”

Greg could see Sally wanted to ask questions, but she said only, “Okay.” She turned to Greg and he nodded. He felt himself relax as she accepted his assurance, turning to go. At the corner of the building she turned once again, looking at Greg and Mycroft before disappearing.

“How long?” Greg asked blankly.

“Any moment,” Mycroft replied. He looked more closely at Greg. “I did not have the chance to ask. Are you well? Medical staff will be part of the team arriving.”

“I’m alright,” Greg said. He was sore, but there was nothing really wrong with him. He knew what he wanted to do – go home, have a cuppa, have someone hold him close… But that was not on the cards. Best he could hope for was the cuppa at home and maybe a hot water bottle, if he could find it. “Just wanna go home.”

He knew it sounded pathetic and more than a bit juvenile but the words slipped out. To his horror emotion welled in him, and the next few breaths were shaky and irregular. He pulled his gaze from Mycroft’s clearing his throat.

_Don’t lose it now._

“That can be arranged,” Mycroft replied after a pause. “Your statement is not required this evening.”

Greg nodded, cursing the emotion as it rose again. He didn’t trust himself to open his mouth. Instead he shoved his hands in his pockets, ready to go but unable to speak.

“This way,” Mycroft murmured, indicating with his umbrella.

Greg followed, finding his shoulders hunched protectively. His mind was blank as he followed, the sound of two sets of footsteps on the wet cement loud in his ears. He’d almost forgotten the dead assailant they’d left behind. His mind was finding it had enough to figure out what was going on now, let alone wonder what would happen back there.

There was a car, warm air, the whir of tyres on the road. The distinctive hiss of water flying up in their wake was settling. By the time they arrived Greg was calmer. For a moment he sat, his mind picturing what awaited him.

_Stairs, the cat from 4B, the door that sticks. Cold air, cold water, cold bed._

He sighed.

“Thanks,” Greg muttered as he fumbled with his seatbelt. It wouldn’t unstick itself and his clumsy fingers couldn’t make it work. He felt his face grow hot at his ineptitude, tears of frustration threatening to drop as he looked down.

Without a sound, a gloved hand came into view, long fingers covering his own, stilling the trembling action. Greg stopped, allowing the fingers to move his own aside, watching as they performed the simple motion to free his belt.

“Thanks,” he whispered again, voice barely audible this time. He couldn’t look at Mycroft, offering a grimace-like smile instead before turning blindly to open his door. The road was silver as the rain reflected the light, cold air hitting Greg in the face as he straightened.

Hang on.

This was not his street. Confused, still more emotional than he thought he should be, Greg blinked at the buildings.

The appearance of Mycroft’s head as he rose out of the car made him start, eyes locking on him. He knew his face was questioning and he hoped like hell Mycroft could read it in the dim light. Of all the times, now was when he needed his mind read by a Holmes.

“My home,” Mycroft said quietly, his voice carrying across the roof of the car. “I took the liberty of bringing you here in case you would prefer company this evening.”

Greg was floored. He was unable to even decide if he was happy or not. The idea of Mycroft thinking about him, considering him and his needs was unfamiliar. This remarkable consideration overshadowed the outcome – he was at Mycroft’s house. His private residence, instead of Greg’s dodgy little flat.

“If I have made an error, I will of course return you to your flat.” Mycroft’s voice was as quiet again as earlier, but the vein of embarrassment brought Greg back.

“No,” he said. “No. This is…good. Thank you.” He drew a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Mycroft nodded and Greg found himself breathing out, following once again – this time up a set of stairs and though a gloss black door.

The flat made Greg’s look even worse in comparison. It was warm and inviting, for starters, nothing like Greg’s.

“My car service will take you home whenever you wish,” Mycroft said quietly, removing his coat, gloves and scarf, placing them precisely on the hall stand and hooks. “I can make tea, or coffee if you’d prefer. Or I can offer you something stronger.”

“Tea would be great,” Greg replied. He handed over his own coat and gloves, an odd twist as they found a place beside Mycroft’s. The flat was quiet and still _(like mine)_, but having another body close made it cosy rather than lonely. Sitting at the small table in Mycroft’s kitchen, watching the smooth domesticity of someone making tea, Greg felt the knot of anxiety begin to ease. For whatever reason, Mycroft was content to move in silence; Greg dismissed the slight awkwardness it generated in him and instead embraced it as comfortable. No small talk required, simply watching Mycroft move around his own kitchen, glance flicking to Greg as he carefully shrugged off his jacket and hung it behind the door.

While the kettle heated, Mycroft set the table. As he moved back and forward the warm air wafted over Greg, bringing Mycroft’s scent gently to him. He breathed deeply, hoping it was discrete, eager to confirm the company was real. Focussed more on the small details of Mycroft as he moved around the kitchen, Greg did not notice the addition of biscuits on the table until Mycroft sat before him.

“Eat, Greg,” Mycroft said. He pushed the biscuits across the table to join the steaming mug of tea already before Greg. The sight of the mug triggered the automatic response – bag out, milk in, two sugars, stir. Before he knew it, the liquid was caramel coloured and his hands were wrapped around it, taking in the warmth.

“Thanks,” Greg said, taking a biscuit. “I seem to be saying that a lot tonight.”

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft replied. “No thanks are necessary, however.”

Greg huffed a laugh. “Pretty sure you saved my life, actually,” he said. They hadn’t talked about what had actually happened at the warehouse. “Assuming that shot was you.”

“It was,” Mycroft replied.

“So I think a thank you is the minimum required, really,” Greg said. “Nice shot by the way.”

“Fair,” Mycroft allowed. “I did not hit the centre of my target, however.”

“It worked,” Greg said. “So, thanks.”

He swallowed. “And all this,” he said, waving around at Mycroft’s house.

Mycroft was quiet, his own fingers flexing around his mug as he watched.

Greg felt as though Mycroft could see through his head, all the jumble of loneliness highlighted by the events of this evening. He dropped his eyes, examining the shape of the bite mark on his biscuit. One of his incisors was turned out a little more than the others, he noted absently.

“If I am being completely honest,” Mycroft said, “I have an ulterior motive.”

Mycroft’s words took a moment to register, but when they did Greg frowned. “What?” He didn’t even look up, instead pressing his hands flat to the table, the cool table smooth against his warm palms. “It’s something with Sherlock, isn’t it? You know I look out for him the best I-”

He cut off abruptly as Mycroft’s hand reached out, hovering for a second before settling on his own. It was warm, the weight not nearly enough _(tentative, not certain enough to rest fully)_, and completely still. Greg stared at it, wondering how long he had been hallucinating. He flexed his fingers, seeing and feeling the other hand move too.

When he thought he could deal with the inevitable conversation, Greg looked up. Quiet grey eyes met his own, a veneer of calm not entirely covering the terror beneath.

“My motive,” Mycroft said, “was rather more personal.”

Greg stared, his thumping heart all he could feel moving.

“My interest in keeping you safe extends rather beyond the boundaries of professionalism,” Mycroft said, a flush creeping up his cheeks.

Greg had to admire how steadily he held their gaze; such an admission from many people would come with awkwardly averted eyes. Not Mycroft.

“I have greatly admired you for a long time,” Mycroft continued. A flash of the same distress Greg had seen in those first moments at the warehouse. “When the threat against you came I spared no time, and only good fortune put me in the right place to act.”

“Fuck,” Greg breathed. “If I hadn’t dropped…”

“Had that man moved any closer I would have shot you,” Mycroft said evenly. “On purpose, to make you drop.” His face worked for a moment and he added, “I apologise. That would not have been my preferred option.”

“Or mine,” Greg answered automatically.

They both grinned at the poor joke, and as the tension eased, Greg felt something else come to the fore. Had Mycroft said…

“So does that make you my white knight?” Greg asked. The exhaustion that had plagued his evening was being slowly eroded by the adrenalin building in his system. If Mycroft meant what Greg thought he meant, it could change things. A lot.

“I wouldn’t consider it so,” Mycroft replied. “I find I have tired of hiding, and the coincidental events of this evening made it natural for me to invite you here.”

“Yes,” Greg said. He didn’t know what to say. The idea was a little overwhelming – to be offered something he had long ago resigned himself to living without was big, to say the least.

Instead, he turned his hand over, picking up Mycroft’s hand and raising it to his lips. A brush of lips against knuckles, eyes watching the grey eyes before him widen, and Greg put Mycroft’s hand down once again.

“You might not consider it so,” Greg said, his heart pounding harder even though he knew Mycroft was receptive, “but I do.”

Mycroft’s mouth was hanging open, and he shut it hastily. “Yes. That would be, yes.”

“If we’re laying it out there,” Greg said, “the thing I want most right now is someone to hold me.” The words felt corny but the combination of fatigue and two severe shocks put him in no mood to dance around social niceties.

“Stay,” Mycroft said simply, his words thick with emotion. “Stay the night. Sleep with me.”

Greg nodded, breathing deeply. Finally.


End file.
